The Drums of Jeopardy Part 20

Will purchase the drums of jeopardy at top price. No questions asked. Address this office.

Double C.

"Very good. I might have missed it. We shall sell the accursed drums to this gentleman."

"Sell them? But--"

"Imbecile! What we must do is to find out who this man is. In the end he may lead us to him."

"But it may be a trap!"

"Leave that to me. You have work of your own to do, and you had best be about it. Do you not see beneath? Who but the man who harbours him would know about the drums? The man in the evening clothes. I was too far away to see his face. Get me all the morning newspapers. If the advertis.e.m.e.nt is in all of them I will send a letter to each. We lost the young woman yesterday. And nothing has been heard of Vladimir and Stemmler. Bad.

I do not like this place. I move to the house to-night. My old friend Stefani may be lonesome. I dare not risk daylight. Some fool may have talked. To work! All of us have much to do to wake up the proletariat in this country of the blind. But the hour will come. Get me the newspapers."

Karlov pushed his visitor from the room and locked and bolted the door.

He stepped over to the window again and stared down at the clutter of pushcarts, drays, trucks, and human beings that tried to go forward and got forward only by moving sideways or worming through temporary breaches, seldom directly--the way of humanity. But there was no object lesson in this for Karlov, who was not philosophical in the peculiar sense of one who was demanding a reason for everything and finding allegory and comparison and allusion in the ebb and flow of life. The philosophical is often misapplied to the stoical. Karlov was a stoic, not a philosopher, or he would not have been the victim of his present obsession. The idea of live and let live has never been the propaganda of the anarch. To the anarch the death of some body or the destruction of some thing is the cornerstone to his madhouse.

Nothing would ever cure this man of his obsession--the death of Hawksley and the possession of the emeralds. Moreover, there was the fanatical belief in his poor disordered brain that the accomplishment of these two projects would eventually a.s.sist in the liberation of mankind.

Abnormally cunning in his methods of approach, he lacked those imaginative scales by which we weigh our projects and which we call logic. A child alone in a house with a box of matches; a dog on one side of Fifth Avenue that sees a dog on the other side, but not the automobiles--inexorable logic--irresistible force--whizzing up and down the middle of that thoroughfare. It is not difficult to prophesy what is going to happen to that child, that dog.

Karlov was at this moment reaching out toward a satisfactory solution relative to the disappearance of the gems. They had not been found on his enemy; they had not been found in the Gregor apartment; the two men a.s.signed to the task of securing them would not have risked certain death by trying to do a little bargaining on their own initiative.

In the first instance they had come forth empty-handed. In the second instance--that of intimidating the girl to disclose his whereabouts--neither Vladimir nor Stemmler had returned. Sinister. The man in the dress suit again?

Conceivably, then, the drums were in the possession of this girl; and she was holding them against the day when the fugitive would reclaim them. The advertis.e.m.e.nt was a snare. Very good. Two could play that game as well as one.

The girl. Was it not always so? That breed! G.o.d's curse on them all! A crooked finger, and the women followed, hypnotized. The girl was away from the apartment the major part of the day; so it was in order to search her rooms. A pretty little fool.

But where were they hiding him? Gall and wormwood! That he should slip through Boris Karlov's fingers, after all these tortuous windings across the world! Patience. Sooner or later the girl would lead the way. Still, patience was a galling hobble when he had so little time, when even now they might be hunting him. Boris Karlov had left New York rather well known.

He expanded under this thought. For the spiritual breath of life to the anarch is flattery, attention. Had the newspapers ignored Trotzky's advent into Russia, had they omitted the daily chronicle of his activities, the Russian problem would not be so large as it is this day.

Trotzky would have died of chagrin.

He would answer this advertis.e.m.e.nt. Trap? He would set one himself. The man who eventually came to negotiate would be made a prisoner and forced to disclose the ident.i.ty of the man who had interfered with the great projects of Boris Karlov, plenipotentiary extraordinary for the red government of Russia.

Midtown, Cutty tapped his breakfast egg dubiously. Not that he speculated upon the freshness of the egg. What troubled him was that advertis.e.m.e.nt. Last night, keyed high by his remarkable discovery of the ident.i.ty of his guest and his cupidity relative to the emeralds, he had laid himself open. If he knew anything at all about the craft, that reporter would be digging in. Fortunately he had resources unsuspected by the reporter. Legitimately he could send a secret-service operative to collect the mail--if Karlov decided to negotiate. Still within his rights, he could use another operative to conduct the negotiations.

If in the end Karlov strayed into the net the use of the service for private ends would be justified.

Lord, those green stones! Well, why not? Something in the world worth a hazard. What had he in life but this second grand pa.s.sion? There shot into his mind obliquely an irrelevant question. Supposing, in the old days, he had proceeded to reach for Molly as he was now reaching for the emeralds--a bit lawlessly? After all these years, to have such a thought strike him! Hadn't he stepped aside meekly for Conover? Hadn't he observed and envied Conover's dazzling a.s.sault? Supposing Molly had been wavering, and this method of attack had decided her? Never to have thought of that before! What did a woman want? A love storm, and then an endless after-calm. And it had taken him twenty-odd years to make this discovery.

Fact. He had never been shy of women. He had somehow preferred to play comrade instead of gallant; and all the women had taken advantage of that, used him callously to pair with old maids, faded wives, and homely debutantes.

What impellent was driving him toward these introspections? Kitty, Molly's girl. Each time he saw her or thought of her--the uninvited ghost of her mother. Any other man upon seeing Kitty or thinking about her would have jumped into the future from the spring of a dream. The disparity in years would not have mattered. It was all nonsense, of course. But for his dropping into the office and casually picking up the thread of his acquaintance with Kitty, Molly--the memory of her--would have gone on dimming. Actions, tremendous and world-wide, had set his vision toward the future; he had been too busy to waste time in retrospection and introspection. Thus, instead of a gently rising and falling tide, healthily recurrent, a flood of mixed longings that was swirling him into uncertain depths. Those emeralds had bobbed up just in time. The chase would serve to pull him out of this bog.

He heard a footstep and looked up. The nurse was beckoning to him.

"What is it?"

"He's awake, and there is sanity in his eyes."

"Great! Has he talked?"

"No. The awakening happened just this moment, and I came to you. You never can tell about blows on the skull or brain fever--never any two eases alike."

Cutty threw down his napkin and accompanied the nurse to the bedside.

The glance of the patient trailed from Cutty to the nurse and back.

"Don't talk," said Cutty. "Don't ask any questions. Take it easy until later in the day. You are in the hands of persons who wish you well. Eat what the nurse gives you. When the right time comes we'll tell you all about ourselves, You've been robbed and beaten. But the men who did it are under arrest."

"One question," said the patient, weakly.

"Well, just one."

"A girl--who gave me something to eat?"

"Yes. She fed you, and later probably your life."

"Thanks." Hawksley closed his eyes.

Cutty and the nurse watched him interestedly for a few minutes; but as he did not stir again the nurse took up her temperature sheet and Cutty returned to his eggs. Was there a girl? No question about the emeralds, no interest in the day and the hour. Was there a girl? The last person he had seen, Kitty; the first question, after coming into the light: Had he seen her? Then and there Cutty knew that when he died he would carry into the Beyond, of all his earthly possessions--a chuckle. Human beings!

The yarn that reporter had missed by a hair--front page, eight-column head! But he had missed it, and that was the main thing. The poor devil!

Beaten and without a sou marque in his pockets, his trail was likely to be crowded without the a.s.sistance of any newspaper publicity. But what a yarn! What a whale of a yarn!

In his fevered flights Hawksley had spoken of having paid Kitty for that meal.

Kitty had said nothing about it. Supposing--

"Telephone, sair," announced the j.a.p. "Lady."

Molly's girl! Cutty sprinted to the telephone.

"h.e.l.lo! That you, Kitty?"

"Yes. How is Johnny Two-Hawks?"

"Back to earth."

"When can I see him? I'm just crazy to know what the story is!"

"Say the third or fourth day from this. We'll have him shaved and sitting up then."

"Has he talked?"

"Not permitted. Still determined to stay the run of your lease?" Cutty heard a laugh. "All right. Only I hope you will never have cause to regret this decision."

"Fiddlesticks! All I've got to do in danger is to press a b.u.t.ton, and presto! here's Bernini."

"Kitty, did Hawksley pay you for that meal?"